Wednesday, October 9, 2013

A Psychological Portrait of Deschutes County, Oregon

Today, I'm writing from a town called Bend. It's in central Oregon,
the site of this year's Thompson Tour.

(Long story short: instead of getting together at Christmas, when everything
is crowded, closed, and/or seething with winter plague, we gather the clan in
the fall, at a different place every year. By spending the money on
travel instead of presents, we can see all kinds of fun and interesting places,
and nobody has to cook!)

I've ventured out from my North Texas hobbit-hole a fair few times now, and
let me tell you – there is really something special about going out west.It's not because the nature out here is
somehow magically better than anybody else's nature.It's not necessarily some epigenetic American
pioneer fantasy, either.I think maybe
it's because the ratio of earth to civilization is still so high here, even
after all the Manifest Destiny and Go West, Young Man and Get Your Kicks on
Route 66 of the last three hundred years.Look here:

Isn't it striking?Out here on the
left side of the country, the constellations of our towns and cities are still –
even in the year 2013 – such sparse little specks in the vastness of the
world... and you can't stay here long without feeling that.

It's frightening, really, to drive up roads that close for snow six months
out of the year, and wonder what it would be like to break down in a blizzard
and find yourself helpless, miles from any other human being.

image courtesy of my sister's enormous phone

Or to sit by a still lake, your phone at zero bars, and imagine how long you
would go unfound if you suddenly had a heart attack.

taken by me

I have a taste for that kind of fear.Even experiencing it in this safe, limited, touristy way pulls you back
through thousands of generations of humanity – to people who huddled around
fires in the dark, hoping to get through the night unnoticed by the things that
lived outside the light.

Actually, I think that's one of the Western's most powerful
attractions.It's the only genre I know
of that centers on a place – and more
than that, a place so immense that it affects every living thing within its
boundaries.You had better step lightly and stay wakeful, it says, because nobody is coming to help you if you
can't.It's not horror – there's
nothing malicious about it – but a place so vast and ageless as to be almost incapable
of noticing you.Human emotions like
love and hate have their opposite here, in hundred-mile stretches of geological
indifference.

sister again

Of course, while I-the-individual am tiny indeed, we-the-species are not,
and it's dangerous to forget the power we have to alter our planet.Still, in many ways, coming here feels like
going home to my parents' house: we are bigger now than we were even a thousand
years ago, and maybe even slightly more mature... but it's good to visit every
now and again to remember where we came from, and to reflect on our smallness.

...and again. No, I don't know how she does it either.

Happy birthday, me. And thank you, Earth, for letting me live on you.

And Spring herself, when she woke at
dawn,Would scarcely know that we were gone.

(Sorry, that was me above, I hit the wrong button, don't ask, reposting!)

A very happy birthday to you! Sorry I missed this and couldn't be more timely, but I hope you had a very good one!

I guess I must be the anomaly in the bunch, which is par for course, since what I took from the post was that no vacation is really satisfying without mild existential panic and scenery that could be concealing multiple unfound dead bodies.

I also agree you have a way with words. Your smithing of the language has to do with shaping deep thoughts and ideas into understandable yet reflective relatability. Whereas the last time I was told this it was because I'd said that of course men had boobs, they just called them 'pectorals'.

Hey, dude - no worries at all; you see how late I am in reply! Let's be belated buddies together.

Because for one thing, nobody else understands compulsory anxiety like you do, and I am so glad I'm not the only one who can look at nature's majesty and start reaching for the antacids. (Have I told you lately how much I miss Borkowski?) Or maybe you're fine with nature and it's just me that gets that queasy thrill, but you're still the best empathizer I know.

Anyway, thanks so much for feeding my ego and being my partner-in-deep-thoughts-and-occasional-spontaneous-awkwardness. It's no lie to say that you have actually, literally made me a better writer and thinker and a far more considerate person, and I can't tell you how much I enjoy those things. Stay with me, Frank - hang out with me and put up with me, and that will be the best birthday present ever!

This was so beautiful, Tex! You make me want to hop in my car and drive away right now, actually. When my fiance and I drove to the Grand Canyon, we got that same sense of 'nowhereness.' It's a lovely and frightening feeling, and did make me more grateful for home when I returned. Happy Trails!